


To My Favorite Scar (To All Of The Stars)

by prosciutto



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Sports, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-23 19:44:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7477404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosciutto/pseuds/prosciutto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Fine.” She says, taking a pointed step forward, staring him down. They’re close enough now that she can make out the smattering of freckles over the bridge of his nose, the fan of his dark, tangled lashes. “Good enough for me.” </p><p>He meets her gaze unerringly, drinking her in. “Fine,” he echoes, but doesn’t make a move to go anywhere, folding his arms across his chest as if waiting for <i>her</i> to leave first.</p><p>Or: It should be noted that given a choice, Bellamy Blake would <i>not</i> have been her first choice for co-captain. But Clarke has a championship to win, so here they are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To My Favorite Scar (To All Of The Stars)

**Author's Note:**

> So the sport in question here is exy, which is a made-up sport loosely based on a book called the foxhole court. You don't have to know anything about it though, considering I don't get into any of the technical aspects of it here. I mean, if you're curious, you could do some reading [here](http://foxhole-court.wikia.com/wiki/Exy). But as I said, it's not necessary for this fic, though!

This is definitely  _ not  _ what she was expecting when they told her they’d send a car around.

Biting back a cutting remark, Clarke hitches her backpack higher against her shoulder, strides forward so she’s toe-to-toe with the driver. “You’re the one taking me to the Ark?”

He blinks over at her, distinctly owlish in demeanor. “Clarke Griffin?”

“The one and only,” she says tightly, thrusting her bags forward. “Can I get a rough estimate for how long this is going to take?”

His gaze drops down to her outstretched hands, the bag strap dangling from her fingers. A flicker of amusement shows on his face, brief, before it shutters away to a expression of polite interest. “Nice to meet you,” he says instead, sticking out his palm. “Monty Green, defensive dealer.”

Wincing, she slides her bag up her shoulder, dropping her hand awkwardly back to her side. “Fuck. I am so,  _ so  _ sorry.”

His laugh is wry, genuine. “It’s fine. I can put that in the boot for you, if you want.”

“Sure,” she agrees, trailing after him as he leads her to the back of a dented, fire-red truck covered in various decals and bumper stickers . “It’s no excuse,” she continues, dropping into a half-crouch to push her bag into the small inch of space that wasn’t filled with racquets and team jerseys, “but I did just come out of a six-hour flight with a wailing baby seated right next to me, so.”

“Sounds great,” Monty grins, slamming the boot shut before gesturing her forward. “I can see why you were feeling positively chipper earlier.”

“It was an absolute fucking delight.” Clarke manages, baring her teeth in an approximation of a toothy smile. “ _ Kids. _ ”

The truck smells like coffee and cigarettes when she slides in, and she uncovers a exposed lollipop stuck by her hand-rest within the first five minutes. Monty has the sense to look a little apologetic about it, shooting her a rueful smile. “Yeah, it’s a mess. Bellamy’s been trying to get it cleaned up, but it’s impossible when everyone is always hitching a ride to get to places.”

She smooths out a crumpled  _ Arkers  _ sticker with her palm, presses down so it sticks against the dashboard. “So this is the team van, huh?”

“It’s Bellamy’s.” He explains, swearing as he tugs at the gear shift valiantly. “But he, uh, lets me drive it around sometimes.”

The truck gives an almighty lurch at that, making her jump, and the look he shoots her this time is pleading. “It has character,” he argues, grimacing when a sudden clank of metal reverberates through the car. “Though I’m willing to bet that this is something you didn’t have to deal with back in Polis.”

And there’s no malice behind his words- just curiosity- but the mere mention of who she used to be, the team she  _ used  _ to be a part of, makes her tense anyway. Transfers were pretty much unheard of in Exy, let alone transfers  _ midway _ into the semester, but exceptions had been made for her, with the whole situation made easier by the fact that Thelonius Jaha was an old family friend as well as the (mostly absent) coach to the Arkers.

Fiddling with the neckline of her top, Clarke settles for a vague shrug instead. “Not exactly. But this is fine.”

“I’m glad,” he says, decidedly unobtrusive, and yeah, she thinks she could definitely grow to like this guy in the long run, “anyway, to answer your earlier question: it’s really not going to take us long to get to the dorms, just a fifteen minute drive. Twenty if we stop for a snack break.”

She frowns, straightening in her seat. “Wait, why are we going to the dorms?”

“So you can unpack and settle in?” He goes, wrinkling his brow at her. “We’re not going to ask you to practice on your first day here, let alone--”

“I want to,” she interjects as the stadium looms in the distance, sunlight glinting off the plexi-glass walls and making her squint. “At least just to observe, if you guys don’t want me messing up your rhythm.”

His smile is pinched around the corners when he looks over at her. “Right,” he says, careful, before flicking on the turn signal and making a sharp left turn. “Just wondering, have you watched any of our matches before?”

“Not yet,” she admits, unbuckling her seat belt as the pull into the parking lot, relatively deserted and undisturbed except for the occasional shrill of the buzzer sounding from the court. “But you guys qualified for the national championships last year, right?”

“A shining moment for us all.” Monty mutters as they step out into the cool September air, shoving his hands into his pockets as he trudges ahead of her, sounding a little resigned. “come on. Time to meet the others.”

The court draws into a view, and she can make out the muffled sound of voices, glass shuddering slightly when a racquet thumps against it, startling her. “What in the--”

She stops short, nearly barreling straight into Monty at the sight.

It’s pure,  _ utter  _ chaos, a cacophony of voices and a blur of movement, the thrown racquet clearly an indicator of a fight in question. One of them has a hand thrown up to his nose, a wad of tissues pressed up against it as he glares over at a sullen-looking boy, being forced backwards by a tanned, freckled arm--

“Meet the Arkers,” Monty deadpans, having to raise his voice slightly to be heard over the din. He gives a half-hearted wave when they all turn to stare. “Hey guys, meet Clarke.”

A small, awkward silence passes before they all seem to remember their manners, though the scattering of  _ hellos  _ sound more unenthused than anything. She forces a smile, spends half a minute debating if she should offer her hand when he steps out of the throng, cutting an imposing figure with his broad shoulders and deep-set scowl.

“I thought you were bringing her back to the dorms.” He says, addressing Monty (and  _ only  _ Monty) rather pointedly. She finds herself bristling almost instantaneously at that, tilting her chin up so she could look at him straight on while he continues to (deliberately) avoid her gaze.

“ _ She  _ wanted to drop by to meet everyone else first.” Clarke cuts in smoothly, making sure to inject a note of sweetness in her voice. It works for the most part, and she bites back a smirk when she notes the twitch of his jaw. “You know my name. Do I get yours?”

He crosses his arms over his chest, positively looming over her despite their meagre height difference. It’s a classic intimidation technique, one that she’s more than attuned to (and often guilty of). “Bellamy Blake.” He declares, brusque, shoving his hand forward, “Goalkeeper _and_ captain.”

It takes a herculean amount of effort to take his hand, shaking it perfunctorily before throwing in a polite nod to boot. “Nice to meet you.”

“Pleasure.” He bites out, short and clipped in a way that belies his words entirely. Then, turning his face away, he adds, “the rest of you, hit the showers. We’ll resume tomorrow morning.”

Straining to keep the smile on her face, she settles for pressing her lips together instead, says through gritted teeth, “but we just got here.”

“That’s why I told Monty to bring you to your dorms instead.” Bellamy says, sharp, peeling off his arm guards in a single, fluid motion. “Get him to drive you over, I’ll jog back.”

_ There’s enough room in the goddamn truck,  _ she nearly snaps, only barely manages to restrain herself on Monty’s account. “Alright then.” She goes, wheeling after him as he breaks into a light jog. “So what are your warm-up drills like? Is there anything I have to get ready for tomorrow?”

“Just show up.” He tells her, terse. Then, almost as if he couldn’t resist, “I’m sure it’s nothing your previous team didn’t teach you,  _ princess.  _ Don’t worry, you won’t be struggling to keep up, or anything.”

Abandoning all pretense of being pleasant, she barks out a laugh, plants herself directly in his line of sight. “Trust me, I’m  _ not  _ worried about that in the slightest, and--”

“Then there’s nothing else to say, is there?” He interrupts, words dripping with venom,  _ smirking _ at her when she lets out a irritable huff. “I’ll see you, if you even decide to show up.”

“You can count on it.” She retorts, sardonic, making sure to shove against him before stomping off the court, letting the door bang loudly behind her in the dramatic, exaggerated exit that she always dreamed of having.

(Bellamy Blake could  _ suck  _ it.)

+

The first thing she does when she gets to her new room is to google him. 

It’s nothing she didn’t expect: two years older than her, joined the team back in his freshmen year. There’s a few articles about how his meteoric rise to his position as captain was what led the Arkers to qualify for the championships for the first time in _years_ , but it’s mostly eclipsed by the terrible press about the team.

Turns out, it’s hard for the general public to take you seriously when your team is comprised mostly of ex-juvenile-delinquents with a tendency to break out into fights mid-match.

Burying her head in her hands, she mutes her feed, cutting off the audio to the grainy, shaky video of the Arkers last match that ended in humiliating and total defeat. (They’re not terrible, not entirely, but she didn’t think  _ this _ was what Jaha meant when he said that working with the team could pose as a challenge.)

Dimly, she recognizes the sound of the stadium lights powering off in the distance, the shriek of a shower being started up. The timer on her laptop screen flashes at the thirty second mark, the Arkers losing by a eight point margin.

Clarke swallows, lifts her gaze when he appears on her screen, grim-faced and white knuckled.  _ Fall back,  _ she thinks, jabbing at his cheek ferociously with her mouse. She knew a losing battle when she saw one, and to keep at it would be futile, a waste of energy--

He still catches every one of the attempted goals anyway, unfaltering and unyielding, eyes fixed on a point in the distance she can’t see.

It’s pathetic. It’s  _ desperate _ . And yet, she can’t look away.

+

Past experience (and the exy rules and regulations committee) dictates that morning practices starts promptly at seven in the morning, so Clarke drags herself down to the stadium at six fifty five, a thermos full of coffee in hand. 

They only start streaming in at eight, yawning and grumbling in equal measure.

She’s been sitting on the bleachers drinking her lukewarm coffee for the past hour and a half, so it’s an effort on her part not to be churlish towards the team when they settle down on the bleachers scattered around her, barely acknowledging her except with faint nods and or a lazy wave.

Monty shoots her a distracted grin when he arrives but makes no move to introduce her either, and she’s contemplating if standing up and just  _ going  _ for it would be such a bad idea when someone plops down next to her, effectively derailing her train of thought.

“Clarke, right?” The girl asks, sticking out a hand for her to shake. “I’m Raven Reyes. Striker.”

Her smile is wide, bright, but it’s the brace wrapped around her thigh that catches Clarke’s interest instead, the gleam of silver and the aged, worn leather spanning down her calf.

“Nice to meet you,” she replies instead, forcing her gaze away.

“You used to play striker, right?” Raven continues, before jerking her thumb over to the girl sitting by her left. “This is Octavia Blake. She’s a striker too.”

And it goes like this for a while, with Raven rattling off a series of names and positions while she tries vainly to remember all of them. There’s only nine of them, which makes the Arkers one of the smallest teams she’s ever heard of; but what they lack for in numbers they make up for in  _ spirit,  _ according to Jasper (over-caffeinated, talks a mile a minute, backliner).

Clarke recites the names under her breath after, mixes up Murphy (sulky, chronic stink eye, offensive dealer) and Miller (grouchy, speaks in a mono-syllable, backliner) before they tell her in no uncertain terms that this is an unforgivable offence unless she shares her coffee. She hands it over without much of a fight before Harper (sweet, a little too chirpy for eight in the morning, backliner) demands they play some sort of convoluted name game that involves testing her newfound knowledge of her teammates, and she agrees, because why not?

“Raven,” she begins, counting off her fingers. “Octavia, Monty, Jasper, Miller, Murphy, Harper, and--”

She falters when he steps into view, hair wet and brows scrunched together.

“Bellamy.” He adds, a tad impatiently, crossing his arms over his chest. “Now are we going to get started on our morning drills, or are we just going to sit around and braid each others hair?”

Octavia snorts at that, uncrossing her legs fluidly before coming to stand by her brother’s side, “you’re the one that’s  _ late _ .”

“I was up all night coming up with new plays,” he retorts, arching a brow at her. “Anyway. We’re running laps today, so let’s start off with ten and work our way up.”

A collective groan sounds throughout the space before they start moving, Jasper vaulting off the bleachers row by row purely so he could annoy Murphy and clambering on his back as they stumble through the gate together. Bellamy didn’t seem to mind, at any rate, regarding them with a mixture of exasperation and fondness that made her dislike for him ebb, just a fraction.

The sentiment holds up until she actually  _ attempts  _ to walk onto the court.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He demands, falling into step next to her.

She blinks over at him, her brain scrambling frantically to catch up at the implication behind his words. “You said ten rounds around the court.”

He gives a careless shrug, sniffing pointedly. “Doesn’t include you, princess _.  _ Why don’t you just stay back and observe today?”

“What’s there to observe about running  _ laps? _ ” She goes, trying and failing to keep the note of incredulity from her voice.

“Oh, I don’t know.” He says, tilting his chin over at her in a way that can only be described as patronizing. “Maybe you big shots use a different kind of method when it comes to warming up. I wouldn’t know.”

Anger rears up within her, sharp and hot, building insistently against the back of her eyelids (she was always an angry-crier). “Or maybe you’re just  _ afraid  _ that I’ll outshine you on the court.”

Bellamy stills, eyes flashing dangerously at that. “Of course that’s what  _ you  _ think this is about.”

His voice has gone low, quiet, and if Clarke was at all easily intimidated, she might have backed off, but she’s faced down much worse before from her time at Polis and if he thinks he can just  _ push  _ her around--

“Do what you want, your highness.” He says finally, a clear dismissal, before turning away, weaving into the pack effortlessly as they sprint along the concrete.

Exhaling shakily, she forces back the onslaught of tears, swallows back the fury building in her throat. Their jerseys flash orange and gold under the light, a far cry from the Grounders colors of green and blue and it fills her a strange, hollow sort of satisfaction.

Spinning abruptly on her heel, she strides back to the bleachers, plops down to watch. (There was something to be gained from not playing into Bellamy Blake’s expectations of her anyway.)

It’s a pretty standard warm-up session, as far as she can tell. They run laps and go through drills, building up endurance and speed and strength. There’s not much to said about the general level of skill amongst the team; they’re not  _ bad  _ per se, but clearly lacking in precision and discipline.

Bellamy gives a sharp whistle by the time the sun begins its descent in the horizon, signalling the end of practice, and she’s up and off her seat before she even realises what she’s doing, crossing the court to meet him.

The expression on his face tightens at her approach, steeling himself for a fight.

“I’m on cleanup duty.” She says instead, side-stepping him so she can scoop a ball up into her grip. “You guys go get washed up.”

“You sure?” Monty asks, worried, dropping into a crouch so he can grab at several balls rolling by their feet, “I can help out, if you want.”

“It’s fine.” She manages, and she can’t help looking at Bellamy while she says this, steady and even and measured. “I can handle it.”

The corners of his mouth twitch at her statement, his face inscrutable even though he holds her gaze. “Suit yourself, princess.”

They all file out quickly after that, and she busies herself with gathering the remaining balls, piling the spare racquets to lean up against the wall. The campus is unusually quiet on the account of it being summer and it’s  _ nice,  _ being able to enjoy the solitude.

She’s zipping up her gear bag when Octavia emerges, hair brushed up into a set of intricate braids and a ball held loosely in her palm.

“You missed one,” she goes, tossing it into her waiting hands. “Almost done?”

“Yeah,” she says, dropping the remaining few balls into the filled basket. “I’m heading out in a few.”

A awkward, silent beat passes, Octavia’s gaze weighing heavily on her back.

“He’s not normally like this,” she says, abrupt, as if daring her to argue. “But he doesn’t want to waste time on you if you’re going to go back to the Grounders whenever you get the chance to.” 

The scoff that leaves her lips is involuntary, but it has the desired effect anyway. “What makes him think I’ll go back?”

She rolls her eyes. “Seriously? The Grounders ranked second in Nationals last year. We ranked  _ dead  _ last. Once you’ve decided you’re done slumming it with us, you’ll go right back to them and take your rightful place at the top.”

The words sting, the anger in her chest tightening into something small and dark and cold. She hates how her voice sounds to her own ears, weak and unconvincing as she declares, “that’s not the type of person I am.”

Octavia considers her for a long minute, still and unmoving. When she speaks this time, it sounds a lot like challenge. “I sure hope so, Clarke.”

+

He didn’t say a word the next day when she joined in on practice, keeping pace alongside him while running laps and lining up practice shots to work on her aim. 

He didn’t say a word when Monty came by with her Arkers jersey either, insisting that she try it on right there to make sure that it fit right. He didn’t even  _ blink  _ when Raven demanded a picture together after, and had taken it with a careful, blank expression on his face.

It’s unnerving, to say the least, but definitely a welcome change from having him constantly  _ aggravate _ her.

“Bellamy didn’t think you’d last the week,” Miller admits, leaning in conspiratorially as they swigged from their respective water bottles. “I think he’s secretly impressed, but he’d rather put his head through a wall than admit it.”

“I’d pay to see him put his head through a wall.” She mutters, grinning at Miller’s sharp bark of laughter, trailing her all the way to the locker room. 

It’s more of the same as the end of the week approaches: laps, drills, and working on the new plays Bellamy developed. Their upcoming match is in two weeks, the first of which would take them on their way to qualifying for Nationals this year, signifying the beginning of practices running past their usual time slot and more intensive workouts.

Clarke only starts to feel it on the last day of the week, muscles screaming and lungs burning from the exertion. Grimacing, she braces herself on the nearest surface she can find before fumbling gracelessly for her bottle, cursing the relentless summer heat under her breath.

He joins her shortly after, dropping to his haunches, running his fingers through his unruly mop of hair.

If the last few days had been any indication, this interaction would be a non-existent one- or at least, hostile- so she’s not expecting it when he tells her, casual as can be, “this isn’t a race, you know. Laps are for conditioning.”

She blinks, composes herself quickly enough. “I know. But I, uh. It’s hard to remember that sometimes.”

He peers at her from the corner of his eye, barely making eye contact despite the upturned corners of his mouth. “Well, not everything is a competition, princess.” Then before she can react, “don’t strain yourself too much.”

It’s not exactly  _ warm,  _ or even all that friendly for that matter, but it’s progress all the same. Clarke’s definitely not complaining.

+

It’s discomforting, waking up on Saturday morning with the realization that there’s nothing to do for the day. 

She does alright for the first few hours; indulges in a hot shower, works on finding her way around campus, gets a pizza for lunch before putting her netflix subscription to good use.

There’s even  _ time  _ for her to duck into the campus bookstore to purchase a few rudimentary art supplies, stacking them up in the corner of her room in case inspiration strikes. 

The boredom only sets in sometime around six, when the novelty of having an entire day to herself wears off and there’s really not much else to do after, except maybe stare at her ceiling in a sleepy stupor, counting the cracks--

Then someone kicks in the door to her room and she startles awake, scrambling to a seated position.

“Hey,” Raven says brightly, as if she didn’t just attempt to take her door off its hinges, “what are you up to, right now?”

Blinking, she wipes at her mouth surreptitiously, “just-- nothing much, I guess. Why?”

“Cool!” She chirps, a very un-Raven like noise that she didn’t think she was capable of making in the first place, “you wanna go to a party together?”

It takes Clarke a minute, but she places the expression in the end anyway. “Listen, I may not  _ know  _ you all that well, but I’m sensing an ulterior motive here.”

That brings a scowl out of her, which is about the most genuine emotion she has seen from Raven in the last few minutes. “Okay, fine. So I may really need someone to accompany me to this party, okay?”

Grinning, Clarke slides off her bed, untwists the knot she has her hair in. “Can I ask why, at least?”

She shrugs, picking at her bedspread nonchalantly. “I don’t want to seem too available or anything.”

“Sorry, I meant to  _ whom  _ do you not want to seem all that available to?” She asks, pulling a cardigan over her tank top before wiggling into a pair of jeans.

Raven glares, continues her vicious assault on the bedspread. “Some stupid guy from the rugby team, okay?” Then a little petulantly, “I don’t even like him all that much. I just want to hook up with him.”

“Sure,” she agrees, biting back a smile. “Can I get a name, or is that off-limits too?”

“Maybe if you get a move on.” She retorts, tossing a stray pair of socks at her.

The party isn’t too far off, just a few blocks away from their dorm, and she spends the entirety of the walk trying to wheedle a name out of her. Raven doesn’t give in, though it’s not exactly difficult to figure it out in the end; not when she kept spacing out in the middle of their conversations to exchange heated stares with the tall, intimidating figure at the other end of the room, red jersey stretching tight over his chest with his name printed on the back.

Stifling the urge to laugh, she tugs on Raven’s sleeve, effectively interrupting yet another staring contest. “So is Roan his first name or his last name?”

“Shut up!” She hisses, flushing, and somehow her panicked expression is enough to send them both into fits of laughter, nearly upending each other’s drinks in the process.

“C’mon,” Raven tells her woozily, patting her cheek. “I’ll bankroll your first round at quarters.”

So that’s what they do for a while, quarters then blackjack and a little bit of poker too, a round which she manages to win under Raven’s tutelage. There’s a lot of introductions flying around, the kind which you forget almost instantaneously after the person leaves but it makes her feel  _ nice  _ all the same, like she’s actually making friends or trying to at least, and the Grounders could  _ suck  _ it and so could Lexa--

It doesn’t occur to her that she’s drunk until she’s slumped over in what looks like a coat closet, very much alone with her head pounding something fierce; the knowledge of how she got here in the first place evading her.

“Shit,” Clarke mutters, her voice scratchy to her own ears. There’s a bruise on her shin that she doesn’t remember getting either, though she does have a faint recollection of Raven telling her something, the press of her palm against the small of her back, leading her somewhere--

She winces at the sudden flare of light, blinding her. “What the fuck?”

It’s impossible to make out the person standing by the door, not in the darkness of the closet and with her senses impaired, but the voice is recognizable, familiar even when her name sounds foreign rolling off his tongue.

“Clarke,” Bellamy says, slow, like he’s trying to work out some complicated equation that he can’t seem to fathom. “What the hell are you doing here?”

The light’s hurting her eyes so she kicks blindly at the door, only relents when he finally gets the message and pushes it, leaving the slightest bit of space so a crack of light shines in. “Raven brought me here,” she manages, her tongue clumsy and loose against her teeth, “I think, uh. I think she’s still here? I hope?”

There’s a note of disbelief in his voice when he speaks next, a undercurrent of anger, too. “Did she just  _ leave _ you like this?”

“No,” she forces out, shaking her head in a valiant attempt to clear the blanket of fog over her thoughts, “I don’t think so, at least. She was bringing me somewhere, outside maybe, and--”

Her fingers curl over the ridges of the phone in her palm, the realization that it isn’t hers sparking the memory. “I’m pretty sure she got me a cab. But we must have gotten separated when she was walking me out. That explains how I got her phone, at least.”

If anything, the scrunch between his brows only deepens at that, his sigh loud in the small space of the room. “Okay,” he says finally, leaning down to grasp at her elbow gently. “Do you want to head back?”

Clarke nods, feeling a swoop of nausea race through her as he helps her to her feet. “Yes, please.”

He leads her out of the room, fingers pressed firmly against her shoulder as she leans into him, breathing in his sharp, clean scent. There’s a small smudge of lipstick on his neck, and she almost feels bad for interrupting what must have been a good night for him.

She only registers the meaning behind his words when he extricates his keys from his pocket as they tumble out into the cool night air.

“You don’t have to drive me,” she gets out, leaning heavily against the truck door. “Just call me another cab.”

He mutters something under his breath, sounding suspiciously like  _ didn’t you already try that once?  _ But at her inquisitive stare, just adds, gruff, “it’s fine, princess. Get in, will you?”

And since there doesn’t seem to be a point in arguing anyway, she does, letting her head fall back against the seat while he starts up the truck, the floor rumbling lowly beneath her when they begin to move.

It falls quiet for a bit, the only sound being the soft murmuring of the radio, Bellamy’s fingers tapping against the steering wheel, the beat to an old song she could probably decipher if she was sober.

Then, a little edgily, “please don’t vomit in my truck.”

She cracks an eye open, shifts in her seat to face him. “Some water will probably aid that cause.”

“There’s a gas station up front.” He says, short, before reaching over to unwind the window for her. “You know, I would feel a lot more at ease if you stuck your head out there.”

“Well, it’s too bad, but I don’t really care all that much about your feelings.” She declares, blunt, sticking her tongue out at him when he shoots her a disgruntled look.

The lights of the gas station are bright enough that she has to squint to look directly at it, slumping over in her seat when he pulls the truck into park. “Just a water, right?” He asks, unbuckling his seatbelt.

“Some food would be nice.” She murmurs, closing her eyes, hating how the pounding at her temples seems to have returned full-force.

He returns a few minutes later, laden with bags and smelling faintly of the lemon air freshener that Clarke always associated with gas stations. Wordlessly, he hands her the bottle of water first, uncapping it for her after a brief struggle.

“Thank you.” She manages, after gulping down almost the entire bottle. “Uh, if you hold on to the receipt, I can pay you back tomorrow.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, judging from how quickly his face clouds over at that. “I can afford a few  _ snacks,  _ princess.”

“I didn’t--” she stops short at the sight of his face, the defensive, tense slouch to his shoulders. It was a sore spot, clearly, and it just didn’t seem worth pursuing at the moment. “Never mind.”

She opens the bag instead, rifling through boxes of Goldfish crackers, Thin Mints,  _ even  _ almond nuts. Smiling a little to herself, she settles for the packet of almonds, ripping at the packet with her teeth. “Want one?” She offers, rattling the bag in her palm.

“No thanks.” He sighs. “Though I could really use those chips.”

“Huh,” she goes, absentminded, scrabbling for the pack at the bottom of the bag, “I figured you were more of a Red Vines kind of guy.”

“I’m almost afraid to ask why.” He snorts, grabbing the bag from her.

Silence falls between them yet again, and a part of her itches to fill it the only way she knows how: to bring up their differences, exy, every bad thought he has had of her. Maybe then he’d be easier to get a read on, make it easier for her to make up her mind on him.

But then he turns up the radio, the melody soft and slow and sweet, his arm warm when he brushes up against hers to offer her a chip. It’s companionable, almost, a kind of calm that she didn’t think she could find with Bellamy Blake, and somehow, it’s enough for her to want it to stay that way.

Taking a deep breath, she cranks her seat back, puts her feet up on the dashboard.

Peeking at him from the corner of her eye, she catches his eye roll, the small exhale he pushes from his lips as he stares at her grass-stained sandals. She waits, eyes tilted up at the ceiling, bracing herself for the reprimand.

It never arrives, but she hears it all the same anyway, the sound of his heels settling against the dashboard as well, brushing up against hers, the creak of his chair as he leans back.

Biting back a smile, she closes her eyes, letting herself drift off for just a bit. If she didn’t stop to think about it, it could have almost been a dream.

+

(It’s  _ not  _ a dream, and the humiliation sets in the very next morning at the hundreds of messages on Raven’s phone and the bottle of Advil perched on her nightstand. Coupled with the realization that he must have carried her up after she passed out  _ and  _ thoughtfully removed her shoes before covering her in her blankets, and,  _ well. _ Clarke’s just-- yeah, she’s definitely not leaving her dorm room for the foreseeable future.)

+

A week before their first match, and they kick things off by getting into a vicious, no-hands barred screaming match. 

And as with  _ most _ bad decisions, it begins with Murphy.

“Hey!” She calls out against his receding back; a blind, absolute fury pushing her forward and over to him, catching his shoulder and pulling him back. “Hey, I’m talking to you!”

A brief flicker of surprise shows on Murphy’s face, smoothing away to a blank, impassive one almost as quickly. “What do you want?”

Clarke gapes, resists the urge to throw her racquet at him, at the slow sneer curling over his features. “Are you seriously asking me that  _ after  _ you backhanded Jasper against a wall?”

“Exy is a rough sport,” he retorts, deliberately casual in a way that she  _ knows  _ is meant to rile her up. “If he can’t take it, he can quit.”

“You’re not supposed to rough up your own  _ teammate _ .” She seethes, jabbing her finger against his chest and pushing him a step back. “There are rules that need to be followed and regulations to stick to.”

The scoff he makes is incredulous, hands curling into fists by his side. “And I suppose you know all about that, don’t you--”

His voice trails off at the break in the crowd, the sharp look Bellamy throws him as he steps into view. The expression on his face is nothing short of thunderous, but his voice is measured when he speaks. “Hit the showers, Murphy. We’ll talk later.”

She turns on him instead, furious. “You’re just  _ letting  _ him go?”

“The last time I checked, I’m still the captain so I give the orders around here.” He says tersely, casting a dismissive glance over at the curious ring of onlookers. “Show’s over, you assholes. Get back to your dorms. Jasper, drop by the med bay first and get yourself--”

“You can’t just sweep this under the rug!” Clarke interrupts, stepping cleanly into his path and forcing him to stop short. “Don’t you _get_ that? You can’t just let your team do whatever the hell they want as long as they win you matches by the skin of their teeth.”

Bellamy stiffens at that, mouth flattening into a thin, hard line. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

“That’s what I know,” she shoots back, fury rising off her in waves, black and poisonous and uncontained. “All you care about is yourself, you self-serving, power hungry  _ jackass _ !”

It’s the wrong thing to say- she  _ knows  _ it’s not true, not really- and she almost wishes that she could take it back at the hurt, unsure expression on his face, the bob of his throat as he swallows, hard.

Her lips form his name, an apology poised on her tongue.

Then he gives a bitter, humorless laugh, all traces of vulnerability gone, and the words wilt in her mouth. “Oh I am all that, definitely. But at least I’m not a spoiled, entitled  _ princess  _ who gets everything she wants with money. Tell me,” he demands, cocking his head over at her, “did you even go for any try-outs at all when you decided to do this? Or did your parents just buy you a spot on all your teams?”

It’s a low blow, though not an unexpected one- but she still reels back at the words anyway, has to fight to keep her voice steady when she tells him, “fuck you.”

“But apparently buying you a spot on the team wasn’t enough, right?” He continues as if he didn’t hear her, hands twitching uselessly by his sides and jaw working furiously. “You don’t want to be a team player, you want to be in-charge _._ Well, fine then, princess. I’ll cut you a deal.”

It’s a feat to be able to talk past the lump in her throat, the anger from moments ago dissipating completely and leaving her hollow and wrecked and  _ exhausted. _ “I don’t want to hear anything you have to say.” Clarke spits out, shaky.

“You let me do things  _ my _ way until our upcoming match,” he stresses, pushing on, so close that she can feel his breath fanning against her cheek. “And if we win? You let this go. You accept that I’m captain and stop bitching about how I handle things.”

A pointed, considering beat passes before she asks, “and what if we lose?”

The full-bodied shrug he gives her is meant to be nonchalant, breezy, but she sees the truth in the tense set of his mouth, the flare of his nostrils. “Then you get your wish, princess. You get to be captain.”

_ That’s not what this is about!  _ Clarke nearly yells, holds herself back by biting at the inside of her cheek. To say that now feels like an admission of weakness, and she would rather stick needles under her nails then let  _ that  _ happen.

“Fine.” She says, taking a pointed step forward, staring him down. They’re close enough now that she can make out the smattering of freckles over the bridge of his nose, the fan of his dark, tangled lashes. “Good enough for me.”

He meets her gaze unerringly, drinking her in. “Fine,” he echoes, but doesn’t make a move to go anywhere, folding his arms across his chest as if waiting for _her_ to leave first. (It feels like a giant fuck you somehow, albeit a childish, petty one.)

“Oh, screw you.” She snarls before stomping off, making sure to slam the door extra hard behind her when she goes.

The next few days are a little awkward, but nothing she can’t handle. They exchange glowering looks throughout practices or snipe at each other whenever they get the opportunity but it’s not anything too different from what they usually do anyway. No one suspects anything at any rate, and when Monday rolls around Clarke’s almost confident that they could at  _ least _ give off the impression of a semi-competent team.

They’re up against Azgeda for their first match and any thought of winning goes out of the window once the buzzer sounds.

Clarke’s not sure if it’s because they’re smarter than they look or if they’re naturally just aggressive, cocksure pricks, but their strategy seems to mostly comprise of riling up every single one of their members progressively until someone eventually snaps and throws a punch, which of course, is _exactly_ what happens.

Murphy gets sent off the court first, which puts them down to eight players since they don’t have any subs to speak of. While it’s disadvantageous, it’s not a dealbreaker or anything. Apparently, they’ve dealt with worst according to Bellamy, so they mostly just power through the first half of the game all whilst hoping it doesn’t get worse.

But then Octavia gets a red card in the second half- after she tackles someone for making one too many catty comments about Raven’s leg brace- and it all goes downhill from there.

The score by the end of it is 3-1, which in hindsight, is really not all  _ that  _ bad. Not according to her at least, though she’s sure Bellamy feels differently about it.

She finds him by the bleachers, stretched out and basking in the sun, an arm thrown over his eyes to shield them from the worst of the rays.

Not wanting to startle him, she settles for clearing her throat instead, poking at his bare ankle gently. “Hey.”

Bellamy blinks over at her, bleary-eyed, gaze roving and settling over where her fingers are still resting against the ridge of his ankle. Flushing, she draws away, crosses her arms over her chest instead.

“I wasn’t avoiding you,” he rasps, letting his head fall back. “I just needed a minute to myself.”

“I didn’t say that you were.” She mutters, plopping down onto the other end of the bench.

His chuckle is dry, amused. “You have nothing to worry about, princess. I’m still holding up on my end of the deal.” Then, with the jerk of his chin, “I would say congratulations are in order, captain.”

“Stop it.” She groans, running her palm over her face. “Come on. I wasn’t serious.”

He arches a brow at her, skeptical, before he pulls himself up from his elbows with a grunt. “Could have fooled me.”

“Well, contrary to popular belief, I didn’t come here to usurp you or anything along those lines, okay?” Clarke goes, giving an exasperated shake of her head. “You and I? We have a common goal here. _Winning._ Which we can actually achieve, if you get your head out of your ass and stop treating me like I’m the enemy here.”

“You were.” He says, quiet, but without venom either. Like he’s stating a fact.

“I was.” She agrees, holding his gaze, the knot in her chest unfurling at this new understanding she has of him. “But that doesn’t matter. Not anymore, and not if we want to win this championship.”

It’s not quite a smile, the corners of his mouth only twitching slightly before he says, wry, “so what do you suggest then?”

She shrugs, leaning back in her seat. “I don’t know. But I’m hoping we’ll figure it out.”

“Later.” Bellamy nods, tilting his head back up into the sun, and this time when he offers his hand, it feels like the start of something good.

+

The team still insists on celebrating despite experiencing crushing defeat just hours before, so they have a party of sorts in the boys locker room after; a decadent affair of flat soda and soggy pizza accompanied by the hooch that Monty brews in his spare time. 

It tastes like paint thinner, makes her eyes  _ burn _ .

“Jesus,” she chokes, wiping her mouth with the back of her palm, “what the hell is this even supposed to be?”

Raven takes it from her before she can study it, ruffles her hair up a little. “Trust me, you’re better off not knowing.”

“Yeah,” Jasper chimes in, swatting at Raven’s hand when she attempts to tickle at his ribs, “just don’t question what is in any one of Monty’s concoctions. You’ll feel better about it.”

“None of this is making me feel better.” Clarke mutters, filching the last slice of greasy, pepperoni laden pizza from the box.

“Give it time.” Raven grins, looping an arm around her neck, the other around Jasper’s, resting her weight against them. “Maybe Blake will give one of his motivational speeches again, and we’ll all be overcome by  _ emotion _ .”

She can’t help it, she cracks up at that, “ _ Octavia? _ ”

That sets Jasper off too, dislodging Raven from her perch and sending her sprawling on the ground, stunned but unhurt before they burst out laughing all over again. It’s the kind that travels all the way down to your toes, makes your ribs ache with the strain, the kind which she thought she had all but forgotten years back. ( _ God _ , it feels nice.)

“Elder Blake,” Raven clarifies, getting to her feet unsteadily before dropping back down onto the bench, releasing a sharp, uneven breath. “In fact, where is he? Hey,  _ hey!  _ Bellamy!”

“Don’t call him over!” Clarke hisses, swaying unsteadily on her feet, her stomach twisting at the thought of how his skin had burned under her touch, the graze of her fingers against his ankle. Stupid, stupid,  _ stupid.  _ She’s not even sure why she’s thinking about it in the first place.

But he’s already walking over anyway, bright-eyed and cheeks flushed, loose and relaxed in a way she’s never seen before. “What?” He hiccups, leaning lazily against the row of lockers.

Jasper claps him on the back, enveloping him in a bear bug before he declares, “speech!”

“Speech!” Raven echoes, the words slurred and garbled on her tongue and making her giggle. “C’mon, Blake. We all need one after the day we had.”

Bellamy scoffs, disdainful. “I can’t just  _ make  _ a speech. They don’t appear out of thin air, you know.”

The effect of it is ruined, though, when he gives another hiccup that shakes through his entire body. Jasper presses his face against the jut of his shoulder, cackling.

Her pulse is thundering in her ears, every instinct in her body  _ wanting  _ for her to sit down, to shut up. But she can’t shake the Bellamy from her thoughts, the one who had fought so hard in the last thirty seconds of the game, who wouldn’t stay down even after they cut him off at his knees.

She licks her lips,  _ why would you keep fighting even after knowing you have lost? _

“Come on, Bellamy.” She says instead, voice quivering and room still fuzzy around the edges, “Okay, I have a good one. Say something to the assholes out there. Say something to Azgeda.”

There’s a lengthy, considerable pause, punctuated by the a noise that sound suspiciously like Jasper choking on his own breath.

“Screw ‘em.” He goes roughly, pushing off and up onto his feet. Then, a little louder, “Fuck those guys, seriously. They look at us, and,” he stumbles a little on his feet, rights himself just as quickly. “They look at us, and all they see are fuckups, criminals. They’re threatened by the mere thought of us  _ daring  _ to dream for something bigger for ourselves, something better.”

He breaks off, breathing hard. “Well, screw that. I’m not giving up. We’re  _ not  _ giving in. We’re going to fight because we just don’t know when to quit. We fight because we don’t know  _ how  _ to die quietly.”

The lump in her throat seems to have made a reappearance- and maybe it’s the moonshine or the exhaustion from the day’s events- but she finds herself having to blink back tears, grabbing onto the wall to hold herself steady.

“Okay.” She manages, rocking back on her heels.

He’s still looking at her, the expression on his face unreadable.

“Okay.” He echoes, before leaning over and heaving his pizza all over her shoes.

+

The knowledge that Bellamy Blake has her number and is actively texting her is a little hard to believe when she’s hungover and grouchy on a Tuesday morning. 

Staring down at her phone, she wipes at the screen with her sleeve, fingers dancing over the  _ B  _ he signed his text off with. He sounds offhand,  _ casual,  _ and that’s what makes the entire thing weirder than it actually is because they’ve never been like this around each other, not  _ ever. _

_ Heard about your shoes. Sorry. Anything I can do? -B. _

The text is bordering on  _ nice _ , to be fair, but Clarke is a firm believer in the whole a-leopard-doesn’t-change-its-spots-overnight theory. Not when it comes to someone who’s been antagonizing her for the last few weeks anyway.

(Well, despite a few, key incidents that suggests that he might  _ not  _ be a entirely soulless bastard after all. For some reason, she keeps going back to the night in the truck, the warmth of his palm when he had offered it to her to shake. Just thinking about it makes her feel panicky and warm all over, like she’s running a low-grade fever and yeah, Clarke just  _ doesn’t _ need the aggravation right now.)

So she fires off a pretty generic response, shuts it down pretty quickly. It’s not like he can do anything about her shoes anyway, and she really just wants to get back to sleep and maybe down a Advil.

She saves his number in her phone, though. It would be rude not to.

+

The first step to sucking-less-as-a-team (his words, not hers), apparently, involves putting the team’s credit card to good use. 

“I don’t see why we can’t get a  _ new  _ one,” she insists, watching a tad resentfully as the salesman processes their purchase. “Let Jaha actually be good for something.”

“The card works,” he tells her, glowering down at it before shoving it into the depths of his pocket. “That’s good enough for me.”

She eyes him curiously, “you never used the card in the two years you’ve had it?”

Bellamy grunts, folding his arms across his chest. “Didn’t have a reason to.”

“Ah,” she deadpans, grabbing the bag off the counter. “So, technically, we could have gotten a  _ new  _ camcorder. One that actually uses a USB cord for a charger.”

“Bite me.” He responds dryly, watching her with vague interest as she fiddles with the dials. “We’re filming practices here, Clarke. Not an Oscar winning documentary.”

The battery icon flashes when she switches it on, zooms in to his face. “Why not both?”

He jerks away at that, his scowl deepening. “Cut it out.”

She laughs at his disgruntled expression, flipping the camera shut. “I didn’t know you were camera shy.”

“I’m not.” He says warily, eyeing it suspiciously when she lifts it to her eye-level. “I just don’t like you shoving it in my face, that’s all.” Then, a little grumpily, “you won’t be able to get any of my good angles if you keep doing that anyway.”

It takes her a minute to catch on- because  _ holy shit,  _ was that a actual joke?- and he’s striding away by the time she recovers, having to break into a brisk jog to catch up with him as he unlocks the doors to the truck.

“Hold up, did you just throw in a  _ joke  _ there?” She asks, grinning.

He shoots her an exasperated look, twisting the key into the ignition. “I  _ can  _ be funny, okay?”

“I mean, that’s a little bit of a stretch.” She comments, plopping her feet up on the dashboard and buckling up. “But hey! It’s nice to know that you actually do have a sense of humor.”

“I’m  _ funny. _ ” He glares, petulant. “It’s not my fault you don’t see it.”

Clarke angles the camera towards him, zooming in exaggeratedly at a single point along his chin. “I think that’s because we were sworn mortal enemies all of five minutes ago.”

“It’s not like I hated you or anything.” He says automatically, his gaze darting over to her for a fraction of second before it flits away. “It’s just-- I know nothing about you. And it’s, uh. Pretty unnerving, I guess.”

She ponders this, worrying at her lip with her teeth. “Anything you want to know in particular?”

There’s no hesitation, no moment of pause for him to pretend to think it through. “Why did you leave?” He says, flat, fingers stilling against the steering wheel.

And the thing is, she has always known that this question was  _ bound  _ to come up at some point. She would map out her answer to it on the nights she couldn’t sleep, turn it over and over in her head as if wearing out the edges of it could make it hurt less. But despite all her preparation- all that  _ worrying-  _ the question still throws her for a loop, and she finds herself faltering under his gaze.

Swallowing, she composes herself, finds that it gets easier when she doesn’t look at him. “The short answer is that it started with a bad breakup.”

The light turns green, and he reaches over to flick the turn signal, movements deft and sure. It makes her feel a little better, calms her racing pulse.

“What’s the long one?” Bellamy asks, mild.

She shrugs, casting her gaze skyward, searching for the right words to say. It was hard to explain considering it wasn’t a single, definable moment that made her want to leave, some life-changing incident that opened her eyes to the truth.

It was this, instead: feeling like she never knew how to breathe right with the weight of their expectations against her chest, suffocating her slowly. Being reduced to something small and indistinguishable in their eyes- Lexa’s girlfriend and the striker on the Grounders and someone without any agency in her own life. She thought of how Lexa perpetuated this, too; how she liked to say that they were two halves of the same whole all while trying to remake the parts of her that didn’t fit into the perception of what that was.

_ I was a secondary character in my own story,  _ she tries to say, fiddling with the strap of her seatbelt.  _ They only wanted me in parts that they could understand. _

The silence stretches on. Clarke takes a deep breath, unclenches her fingers from the seat belt.

“I could never be my own person when I was with them,” she says finally, turning to face him. His stare is pensive, quiet. Waiting. It was strangely comforting, easy, just like it had been that night with him in the truck. “I was a fragment in their system, and I just wanted to be whole.”

Bellamy doesn’t say anything to that, not right away. His gaze is steady and contemplative, teeth clicking together as he unclenches his jaw to say, “they sound  _ absolutely  _ charming, Clarke.”

(It’s the first time that this has happened; where explaining herself hadn’t let to someone looking at her as if she was a small, wounded animal or worse, piling her with false apologies. It’s surprising. And not unwelcome.)

Biting back a laugh, she ducks slightly, hiding her smile behind a curtain of hair. “You would have  _ hated  _ them if you knew them.”

“Oh, I already do.” He says cheerily, folding his arms across the back of his head and leaning back. “And trust me, I would have been insufferable if I ever met them.”

Clarke snorts, pressing her forehead against the cool window pane. The realization that they’ve stopped jerks her back into awareness of her surroundings, back into the parking lot of the stadium.

Swearing under her breath, she unbuckles her seat belt. “God, Bellamy. Why didn’t you say something?”

His smile is small, private. A little wry, too, and something she could probably get used to.

“Yeah, well.” He goes, straightening in his seat. “Maybe I just like listening to you talk.”

(She does  _ not  _ blush. Absolutely not.)

+

They’re back at each other’s throats within the hour. 

_ Well _ , she can’t help but think, folding her arms across her chest while he sulks at her from across the court, _ it was definitely nice when it lasted. _

+

Running is just one of those things that Clarke likes in theory and theory only- along with putting avocado on literally every fucking thing and or binge watching the entirety of Star Wars in a day- so she’s definitely _not_ pleased when Bellamy decides to add sprinting drills onto their warmup roster. 

“What’s wrong?” He teases when she passes him, swatting her ponytail playfully. “I thought you liked competition.”

She scoffs, picks up speed so they’re neck and neck, “this is hardly competition,  _ Blake _ .”

“Really?” Bellamy says conversationally, pulling an exaggerated face. “So does your face look that red and splotchy all that time?”

“What,” Clarke demands, jostling his elbow. “Are you saying you don’t think I can keep up?”

His grin is a little too innocent for her liking, “I never said a  _ word _ .”

“You implied it.” She huffs, pumping her legs faster,  _ hating  _ how he keeps up with her effortlessly. “You know what? I’ll prove it to you.”

“I’m listening.” He prompts, pushing a hand through his hair, mussing it up further. It’s distracting enough that she nearly stumbles over her own feet, swearing under her breath.

“Okay,” she says once she’s regained her balance, “here’s the plan. Whoever reaches Murphy first  _ and  _ tackles him to the ground is the faster sprinter.”

He gives a mock gasp, clutching at his chest dramatically. “At the risk of hurting him? Well I never, Clarke Griffin.”

“Exy is a rough sport,” she parrots, slowing her words into a lazy drawl, the best approximation of Murphy’s voice she could manage. “If he can’t take it, he can quit.”

Bellamy snickers, bumping up against her gently. “You’re diabolical.”

“And also a winner.” She tells him brightly, before taking off without warning.

He gives a little shout at that, the rest of his words lost in the wind as she closes in on Murphy, arms outstretched.

Clarke’s a few steps away when he catches up, loping up to her easily, his laugh ringing loudly in her ears when she tries to trip him up. They struggle like this for a while, pushing each other back whenever one of them got a little further ahead, yelling at Murphy to pick up the pace when he got too close, only ending when she lunges at him instead, pushing him to the ground in a heap of flailing limbs.

“You’re a menace.” Bellamy manages, sounding distinctly out of breath.

Giggling, she drops her head back onto the ground, brushing bits of clay off her face. “You’re just saying that because you know I would have won, old man.”

“In your dreams.” He retorts, getting to his feet, waving Jasper away when he bumbles up to them, dithering. “It’s fine,” he says as a way of explanation, jerking his chin over at her. “Princess just decided to test out my air bags, that’s all.”

“They’re faulty.” She says, mostly just to be difficult.

He ignores her pointedly, continues, “so she’s going to make it up to me by reviewing our practice session tapes tomorrow. Right?”

She opens her mouth to argue but Jasper beats her to the chase, looping his arm through hers clumsily. “Shit, that’s great, Clarke. Can you teach me how to do that twirling motion you do with your racquet?”

Narrowing her eyes over at Bellamy, she summons the most saccharine sweet voice she can muster under the circumstances, “I don’t know,  _ Bell.  _ Didn’t we talk about me having more of an advisor role instead?”

“You can’t advise on anything until you have an idea of how each member of the team plays.” He chirps, patting her on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, you’ll be a big help either way.”

She purses her lips at him. He cocks a brow right back at her.

“Why don’t we work on that together?” She says finally, taking a grim sort of satisfaction at how his smile immediately drops, morphing into a scowl in a matter of seconds. “I could use your input too.”

“Fine.” He says tightly, brows scrunching together when she smirks over at him.

“Good.” She replies, folding her arms across her chest.

Jasper beams over at them, oblivious. “It’s  _ great _ that you guys are finally getting along.”

+

The initial plan of reviewing the tapes in the conference room (the one with the lone working projector) is shot to hell when they find the door locked on Saturday morning. 

Bellamy swears under his breath, jiggles at the door knob impatiently. “Seriously?”

“I think you’re supposed to make a booking to use the room, genius.” She mutters, tapping on the blank signup sheet mounted on the wall. “Maybe we can check with the front desk, see if we can get the key if no one’s using it.”

“Forget it.” He grumbles, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Let’s just head back to the dorms. I’ll get my laptop.”

They end up settling down in a relatively quiet stairwell by the fourth floor, cross-legged and leaning against the wall, furiously taking notes all while drinking crappy cups of instant coffee by the vending machine.

Clarke barely suppresses a groan when he rewinds a clip for the fourth time. “Seriously, doing that is  _ not  _ going to improve Murphy’s game in the slightest.”

The side-eye he shoots her is tinged with annoyance. “If you’re suggesting that I take him off the team--”

“Not my point.” She interrupts, wincing at the jolt that races up her spine when she sits up. “I just think that we  _ aren’t  _ playing to their strengths. Harper’s fast, but you placed her as a backliner, where Murphy would probably do better. And it’s the same for Monty and Miller, and,” she swallows, drops her attention to the loose thread hanging from the cuff of her jeans. “Raven would probably do better as a backliner, too.”

His mouth tightens into a thin line at that. “I know. But I have to take her choice into account, and this is what she wants to do, so.”

“Even after the injury?”

“This is  _ Raven  _ we’re talking about, right?” He snorts, letting his head fall back with a loud thump. “I can’t stop her from doing anything she wants to do.”

“True.” She relents, scratching out the latest lineup she had in mind. “You think the others will be more open to moving around?”

He groans, kneading at his temples. “Well, I hope so, at least. I doubt they’re going to be happy about it, but we can try.”

The dark shadows under his eyes are especially apparent under the light, brows knitted together and exhaustion clear on his face. She can’t help but feel a twinge of pity for him- for having to carry the weight of the team by himself over the past few months, for having to be in charge of a group of entirely too impulsive, hormonal teenagers.

It makes her ache, somehow, thinking about he was always at the frontline of things. It was never like this for Lexa; cool, levelheaded and  _ distant  _ Lexa, more of a figurehead than a teammate. Clarke had felt the distance between them even when they had been together, but she had understood it at the same time; the hard curl of her mouth, the understanding she had of her own importance, the willingness to let others fight  _ for  _ her.

It was different for Bellamy, she can’t help but think, a little bitterly but also admiringly. He would bear the weight of everyone’s burdens if he could, would take it upon himself to make sure everyone was content and happy and  _ good,  _ and therein lay the difference between them. Lexa knew how to keep herself away from the line of fire while Bellamy would gladly throw himself in the thick of it if it meant he could fight  _ with _ his friends.

“Hey,” she says impulsively, grasping the jut of his shoulder. “You hungry?”

Bellamy eyes her warily, but doesn’t lean away from her touch. “What did you have in mind?”

“Anything that’s  _ not  _ from the vending machine.” She mutters, biting back a smile at the loud, protesting creak of his bones as he gets to his feet, scowling, the keys to the truck already looped around his finger.

He pulls her face at her, “don’t say it.”

“Age is just a number, Bellamy.” She says mock-solemnly, bursting into laughter when he rolls his eyes pointedly at her. “I can’t believe you’re being such a  _ baby _ about this.”

They bicker all the way to the truck before deciding on burgers, opting for the drive through instead of sitting in one of the crowded, stuffy booths of the diner. She later convinces him that ordering for each other would be a good idea, which is how she finds out that he’s allergic to strawberries and hates onions, that his face turns puce whenever he eats anything remotely spicy and it’s  _ nice,  _ all in all. Companionable. It was something she didn’t get much of when she was in Polis, and she had forgotten how much she missed it until now.

“How are you cool with  _ this  _ happening,” she gestures to the bags of greasy food perched on their knees, the milkshakes balanced haphazardly on their thighs, “but not with me throwing up in your truck? There’s virtually no difference.”

He smirks, reaches over to steal a fry from her. “My mistake, then. I probably should have let you stink up my truck so everyone would stop asking me for rides, huh?”

Clarke frowns, “does no one else have their license then?”

“O has her license, but we can’t exactly afford another car right now.” He says bluntly, counting off his fingers, “Raven’s in no shape to drive. Monty technically shares his Prius with his mom, so it’s not exactly convenient. Jasper shouldn’t be around vehicles of any kind, and I’m pretty sure Murphy is actually  _ banned  _ from driving in several states. So.”

“But you trust Monty with your car.”

Bellamy shrugs, gulping down the rest of his coke. “He’s the only one who can drive stick.” Then, a little apprehensively, “well, somewhat, at least. I make sure to take a good look every time he takes it out.”

She snorts, shaking her head over at him. “Drama queen.”

“I’m  _ careful, _ ” he retorts, dodging her hand easily and helping himself to another fry from her bag. “What about you, princess? You any good?”

“Never tried it before.” She admits, scowling at the cocky jut of his chin. “Shut up. I never had any reason to.”

“Course not.” He says lightly, shooting her a small, tight smile. “Bet you guys had chauffeurs to bring you everywhere.”

There’s a note of humor in his voice, one which she appreciates a lot more than the snippy, jibing comments he used to give about their supposed differences. “Yeah, but. I’d like to learn to drive stick.” Sneaking a glance over at him, she adds, “if you’ll teach me, that is.”

The corners of his lips lift just slightly at that, “you want to?”

Groaning, she swats at his shoulder. “That’s why I’m  _ asking _ .”

“Okay, okay.” He laughs, gathering the rest of the bags off her lap and rolling down the window to dump it in the trash. She takes the time to slip into the driver’s seat instead, resting her hands experimentally against the wheel.

Bellamy looks distinctly amused when he slides into the passenger seat, watching her as she eyes the pedals apprehensively. “Tell me that you have your license at  _ least _ .”

“I passed my theory test!” She argues, schooling the expression on her face into one of mock-outrage when he sighs. “Full  _ marks _ . Can you say that about yourself?”

“No, but I’m the one who has actually driven a car.” He says, bemused. “Don’t rest your foot on the pedal, you’re nowhere close to actually driving.”

“That’s what you’re supposed to teach me.”

The chuckle he gives is rueful, warm in a way that makes her grin right back at him. “Slow down, champ. You’re nowhere close to getting this car in motion.” Then, straightening, he continues, “where do you place your hands on the wheel?”

“Ten and two.” She recites, gaping when he winces comically. “What? No?”

He unfolds his arms from his chest, reaches over to rap his knuckles on the wheel. “Nine and three for better control.”

She repositions her hands, arches her brow over at him.

“Higher.” He says, resting his palm over hers briefly, sliding it upwards before pulling away.

Swallowing, she shifts her other hand downwards. “And here?”

“Nine and three.” He repeats, reaching over to ghost his fingers over her knuckles before curling them over the arch of her palm, pushing it into position. (It makes her breath catch for some stupid, unfathomable reason, and she has to bite at her lip to keep herself from making a sound.)

“So, just like this?” She asks, praying that he doesn’t notice the breathless quality of her voice, the loud, traitorous thump of her pulse.

He shoots her a wry, crooked smile. “Yeah, Clarke. Exactly like that.”

+

The changes in the roster is met with some murmurs of dissent (particularly from Murphy and Miller, though it seems mostly goodnatured on Miller’s part) but no one seems violently opposed to the idea of trying something new. 

Still, the worry on Bellamy’s face doesn’t abate all throughout practice, the crease between his brows deepening whenever someone so much as sighs _._ Honestly, it would have been funny to watch if she didn’t know that he would take every one of them personally, as if Jasper tripping over his own laces was somehow _his_ fault in a roundabout manner because it was his _responsibility_ to tell Jasper to tie his laces, _goddamnit._

She draws up next to him, takes his clipboard away before he can protest.

“I don’t want you popping a vein,” Clarke says tartly, wedging it under her shoulder when he glares. “Breathe. Everything is fine.”

“For now,” he grumbles, posture relaxing to a slouch as he regards their teammates. “I’m just waiting for something to inevitably fuck up.”

Resisting the urge to snort, she pats at his shoulder instead, beaming up at him when he glances down at her. “Well, since you’ve got the worrying and negativity covered, I’ll just focus on winning us that championship title. Don’t mind me.”

That gets a smile out of him. “You’re kind of a dick, you know that?”

“And you’re a jerk.” She replies, squeezing his shoulder once before stepping away. “Now stop brooding and get everyone off the court so I can clean up.”

He stops in his tracks, sheepish. “Hey, you don’t have to keep doing that. I’ll take over if you want.”

“Oh, wow.” Clarke teases, making sure to inject just the right amount of sarcasm in her tone, “are you  _ actually  _ telling me that I managed to prove that I’m not a flaky, uppity princess?”

“Cute.” He says dryly, rubbing at the back of his neck nervously. “But uh, seriously. I can schedule someone else to do it, or handle it myself today.”

“It’s fine.” She says automatically, a little surprised herself at how true the statement is. “I actually like it.” Then, at his confused expression, continues, “I like the quiet. It’s peaceful, I guess.”

Bellamy eyes her consideringly and she flushes a little at the admission, a piece of her willingly offered up to him to scrutinize, to make sense of. She had grown used to closing herself off over the past few years and it was jarring having to adapt to  _ this,  _ to how easy it was to talk to him.

“Okay,” he says finally, unhooking a ring of keys from his belt loops and dropping it into her palm. “Lock up when you’re done?” (This was also an improvement of sorts, considering he used to dump them carelessly on a bench for her back in the day.)

She hums her agreement, and on second thought, adds, “definitely. I’ll make sure to leave it wide open after.”

He rolls his eyes over at her, but there’s fondness in his voice when he says, “god, you’re such a smartass.” And before she can even formulate a good response to that, barrels on, “do you want me to wait up for you? I can drive us back after.”

Sneaking a peek over at him, she can’t help but grin a little at how the tips of his ears go red at the offer, turning away almost instantaneously after the words leave his mouth. She never would have thought that Bellamy Blake could actually be  _ shy,  _ but here they are.

“I don’t know,” she sighs, nudging him in the ribs lightly. “Won’t you be depriving everyone else of their ride back?”

He gives a half-hearted shrug, shoving his hands into his pockets before mumbling, “Monty has his Prius today, so. I just-- I don’t think you should be walking back to the dorms in the dark, okay? It’s not exactly safe.”

And there’s a part of her that recognizes that this is exactly the sort of thing Bellamy does- that he would do this for any of his teammates without hesitation, really- but it’s  _ nice _ , she thinks, to be included.

“Sure,” she says, backing up a few steps to let him pass. “Wait for me by the truck?”

“Yeah,” he goes, looking decidedly relieved. “See you there.”

(She keeps the truck in her line of sight the entire time, eyes fixed on the soft, hazy glow from the windows, a small and constant comfort she thinks she definitely could get used to.)

+

The realization that they’ve won doesn’t sink in until _after_ Monty tackles her in a hug, knocking the wind right out of her as she scrambles to regain her balance. 

He laughs against her ear, the sound bright and lilting, breathing out a litany of  _ holy shit, holy fucking shit  _ until Jasper pulls him off, a tangle of limbs and bright flashes of teeth and it’s all chaos from there; a whirlwind of voices and faces that Clarke can barely make out.

And she doesn’t realize she’s actively looking for him until she finds him, head thrown back in laughter and arms slung around both Octavia and Miller, the relief and joy in his face palpable even from across the field. Raven swings into view after, clambering onto Miller’s back as Murphy claps a hand against Harper’s shoulder, grinning, Jasper and Monty coming in on either end and sending everyone lurching.

It tastes like victory, like triumph, but also of loneliness, too.

They’re a  _ family,  _ a unit, and she was still an outsider, shying along the fringes of things, and--

Bellamy catches her gaze, his eyes widening in surprise. She swallows, takes a quick, instinctive step back, forcing her lips into a smile when he doesn’t look away.

The surprise on his face melts away at that, replaced by a determination of sorts as he stretches his arm out towards her, beckoning her forward, and her heart stutters so loud in her chest that it almost drowns out the hollers of her teammates, the cheers, and--

Her feet are moving even before she has fully comprehended the situation at hand, moving towards them,  _ him,  _ and that’s when he pulls her up into a sweeping hug,  _ lifting  _ her and stealing her breath from her lungs entirely, the voices in the background descending into a frenzy of shouts and catcalls.

“You did it,” he says against her hair, releasing a choked laugh as she abandons all forms of pretense and nuzzles closer. “You pulled it off, Clarke.”

“It wasn’t just me,” she manages, emotional and grateful and fucking  _ relieved,  _ voice shaking with it as she buries her face into his neck, breathing him in. “I couldn’t have done it without you either.”

His arms tighten around her, so close now that she can feel how his chest hitches when he nods, his breath warm against her face. “We did it.”

She closes her eyes, presses her lips against the jut of his shoulder. “Yeah, Bellamy. We did.”

+

The only reason Clarke opens the door in the first place is because she’s fully expecting it to be Raven, who somehow had an extraordinary knack for figuring out whenever she was running late. This either meant a cup of coffee deposited neatly on her table or, failing that, a bunch of snaps taken of her in her frazzled morning state before Raven sends them off to the team. (It depends on the day, really.)

But it’s Bellamy at her door this time, and she’s in her  _ pyjamas. _

“Hey,” he says, handing her a cup of coffee which she takes wordlessly. “Heading out soon?”

_ As soon as I put some actual pants on,  _ she’s tempted to reply, before settling for ducking awkwardly behind her door. “Yeah, in a bit. Uh, give me ten?”

“It’s no rush,” he points out, leaning against her door frame. “Just wanted to tell you that practice is cancelled because our teammates are revolting and are insisting on having a day out as a team.”

She groans, slumping forward and letting the door take her weight. “Should I start worrying about complacency or just let it slide?”

“It’s one day,” he smirks. “Come on, Clarke. Live a little.”

“Fine,” she huffs, dropping her gaze from his face to the worn henley and jeans he’s wearing. (It’s a good look, and she especially appreciates how it stretches over his chest.) “Where are we going?”

He takes another sip of his coffee, laughing when she shoots him an impatient look. “Raven wants to go the beach. It’s supposed to be drizzling out today though, so pack a windbreaker or something at least.”

Clarke eyes his jeans with disdain, “you’re wearing jeans to the beach?”

“Drizzling,” he replies, enunciating each word with exaggerated slowness. “Cold. Wet.”

“Nerd.” She grumbles, turning away so she can rifle through her wardrobe. “You think a sweater will be overkill?”

A beat passes, long enough for her to actually wonder if he  _ left,  _ before he goes, nonchalant, “I don’t know. What’s wrong with what you’re wearing right now?”

She swears under her breath at the realization that he can actually  _ see  _ her in her stained, (she spilled a cup of coke on them once) too small pyjama shorts; her cheeks flushing automatically. “Shut up.”

“I was being serious,” he laughs, cracking up when she flips him off. “I really like the cupcakes. Are there cats on there too?”

“They’re llamas.” She goes, prim, sticking her tongue out at him childishly.

He grins back, his gaze raking down her bare legs before he turns his face away, swallowing audibly. “Sure. Now just go get changed, will you? I’ll be waiting by the truck.”

“Or you could just stay here and make judgemental comments about my clothing choices.”

“I can do that from my truck!” He calls out, closing the door behind him.

Shaking her head, she turns away, directs her attention back to her closet. Her cheeks are still warm to touch when she lays her palms over them, but it’s probably because she has her windows closed anyway. (And has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he checked her out. Nope. Clarke’s a mature, grown adult who does  _ not  _ have a crush.)

The sky is ominously dark by the time she makes her way down, and she spots the rest of them almost immediately, with their hoodies drawn over their heads and sipping from respective cups of coffee. Her arrival brings about another round of enthusiastic hollering thrown in with a few jeers (that do sound surprisingly lighthearted, considering they’re from Murphy) before she throws herself into the front seat, pushing back her hood so she can look at all of them properly. “Hey, guys.”

“Clarke!” Jasper beams, looping his arm through the miniscule gap between the seat and the window just so he could pat at her shoulder, “Murphy didn’t think you’d grace us with your presence, but I knew you would.”

She leans into it, laying her palm over his and squeezing before throwing a dismissive look towards the backseat. “Yeah, but he didn’t know that male chickens were called roosters either, so. It’s not like we can take him seriously.”

The noise that escapes Murphy’s throat at that can only be classified as indignant. “It’s an easy mistake to make,  _ princess. _ ” Then, crossing his arms over his chest, he adds sourly, “Just like how you’re sitting in Octavia’s seat right now. I’d move if I were you.”

“Oh.” She goes, for a lack of a better response, scrambling to come up with a plausible sounding explanation. Telling them about her regular, one-on-one driving lessons with Bellamy seemed way too personal somehow as did mentioning how often they liked to hang out in here.

Unbuckling her seatbelt, she’s halfway out of the seat when Octavia rounds the corner, towing Bellamy along with her.

“I was just getting up.” She says hastily, yanking her backpack up onto her shoulder.

Octavia gives her a quizzical look at that, “you can sit in the front, Clarke. I don’t care.”

“Yeah, but.” she hesitates, strangely unnerved by Octavia’s nonchalance. “Are you sure? It’s not going to be any trouble.”

“Oh, my god.” She announces, throwing her bag in the back with a dramatic flourish. “Why are being so neurotic about this? It’s  _ fine.  _ Calm down.” And before any argument can be made, she darts off, seating herself next to Harper instead.

Feeling vaguely unsettled but unwilling to cause a scene, she slouches in her seat instead, re-buckling her seatbelt while Bellamy gets the car started up.

He catches her eye when she reaches forward to tweak at the heater, smiles. “Should I be hurt that you didn’t want to sit next to me?”

“Maybe I didn’t think you needed the aggravation.” She shoots back playfully, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “It’s a two hour drive, right? It’s probably in your best interest that we don’t interact at all.”

“You’re the boss.” He says mock-gravely, swatting her hand away when she attempts to change the radio station. “But let the record show that I would have been perfectly fine either way. I would have outlasted you, probably.”

“Says the guy who would get all pissed off the second I opened my mouth.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

His smile widens at that, turning to look at her when they hit the first stoplight. “Alright, fine. Maybe you just grew on me, or something.”

No one else seems to be paying attention to them, thankfully, with everyone else focused on their respective conversations and or bickering at the top of their lungs. The level of noise reaches a dangerous decibel within seconds, and secure in that knowledge, she finds herself asking, “really?”

He nods, turning his face back to the road. “Yeah. Like… mold, you know?”

She groans, jabs at his exposed elbow. “Ugh. You’re a real romantic, Bellamy Blake.”

“I try.” He tells her, solemn, holding her gaze long enough for her to wonder if he meant any of it, at all.

+

They scatter once the novelty has worn off, having already taken the requisite group photos Octavia had insisted upon so she could post it up on the team’s social media accounts. Monty had brought a volleyball along so a few of them were tossing a ball around while Raven and Miller were wandering around looking for an ice cream stand. Murphy had disappeared an hour before to make a phone call (many suspected, to his secret girlfriend) and Bellamy was nowhere to be found. 

And, Clarke? Well.

Since no one wanted to look for tide pools with her, she was looking for them herself.

It was something she used to do with her dad, mostly because she hated any strenuous activity that wasn’t exy. He used to be a lot better at spotting them than she was, though she suspected that it had to do with patience rather than skill.

She finds one after a few minutes of searching, perching himself along the rim of it and dipping her toes in the shallow water. It was pretty here, quiet in the sense where everyone’s voices felt far-off and muted despite her not having gone all  _ that  _ far. The only sound she could make out was the occasional crash of the waves or the thump of feet through wet sand, and she deliberated stretching out so she could nap for a few hours.

The plan, of course, goes out of the window the second Bellamy plops down next to her. 

His hair is a wind-blown mess atop his head, and there’s grains of sands stuck against his cheek, the front of his shirt. “Jasper pushed me,” he admits resignedly, settling back on his elbows. “If you want to be alone, just say the word.”

“You’re fine.” She says, wiggling her toes in the water. If it had been anyone else, she probably would have minded but it was  _ Bellamy,  _ and he had a way of making her feel at ease. There was no need to force any kind of conversation with him, no need for posturing or false pretences either. He saw her clearly- as did she when it came to him- and they had accepted each other wholeheartedly and absolutely a while back.

Bellamy toes off his shoes at that, tilting his head back to look up at the sky. “I’m guessing you did this a lot back when you were a kid, huh?”

“I hated everything else you  _ could  _ do on a beach.” She says pointedly, leaning back on her elbows so they lined up with one another. “My dad was the one who told me about the tide pools, and we made a game out of it.”

He hums noncommittally, “what was the game like?”

“It was stupid.” She admits, picking at the fraying thread hanging from her jeans. “Keeping a tally on who could discover more tide pools at the beach, that sort of thing. I could never beat my dad though, he was too good at it.”

Something in her voice must have tipped him off, because when he speaks next, it’s slow, careful. “Maybe next time.”

“He died a few years back.” She says flatly, staring resolutely up at the darkening sky.

There’s a small, awkward pause, until he declares, rather breezily, “well, I guess that means you’re an official, card-carrying member of the dead parent club.”

“Funny.” She manages, angling her head so she could look over at him. “You, too?”

“My mom.” He says, shrugging. “We stayed at my aunt’s until after Octavia turned eighteen.”

There was nothing she could say to that, nothing which she thought would make him feel better anyway. “I would say I’m sorry,” she starts off, keeping her gaze pinned on the clouds above, “but I don’t think you’d want my pity.”

She senses rather than sees his smile, “likewise.”

They lapse back into silence after, the kind that reminded her of the drowsy, hazy moments before sleep, peaceful and warm and comfortable. (It was always easy to feel like this with Bellamy around, even back when they hated each other, and she can’t help but wonder if it was something about his solid, steady presence or something else altogether.)

“Was it easier?” She brings herself to ask, closing her eyes. “Did it feel less lonely because you had Octavia?”

There’s no hesitation in his voice when he speaks this time, just weariness. “Sometimes.”

She sighs, stretching her arms up and above her head. “And here I thought the answer would be a simple one.”

Bellamy snorts, sardonic. “It hardly ever is.”

And she could feel him looking at her, the weight behind his gaze pressing against her cheek, the softness of it on her skin. She steels herself, dares herself to turn over, to look right back.

He swallows, trapping his bottom lip between his teeth before composing himself enough to speak. “I just-- you’re not alone in this, Clarke. You never will be, not ever again. For as long as you want me around.”

The intensity, the utter  _ sincerity  _ behind his words threatens to undo her, and she trembles with it, suddenly and abruptly aware that if he was to reach out and touch her right now, she would shatter.

“You won’t be by yourself either.” She tells him instead, just as the skies open up, bringing a downpour with it.

+

The next few matches are easy wins, bringing them in sight of ranking in the top five, so of course the media is all over it. 

“This one thinks we’re on steroids.” Monty says mildly, tapping away at his iPad. “Which is a lot more believable than the forums. They think we hired body doubles to play our matches for us.”

Raven snickers, propping her feet up on Jasper’s lap. “God forbid we actually improve.”

“Well, if it wasn’t for Bellamy and Clarke, I would have believed in the body doubles theory.” Harper argues, rifling through the sheaf of reports that Miller had printed for  _ authenticity.  _ “Hey, I like this one. We look great in the picture, don’t you think?”

Clarke peers over, resting her chin against Harper’s shoulder. It is a good picture of them, she admits. Dishevelled and euphoric, arms linked with their bright orange jerseys clashing against the green of the court. The article is pretty generic in itself, mostly commenting on their improved technique and all-new cohesiveness as a team, but it’s the separate, smaller article at the bottom of the page that holds her attention.

Frowning, she tugs at the sheet until Harper relents, releasing it from her grip. “I didn’t know Bellamy gave an interview.”

“He didn’t,” Miller shrugs, leaning back in his seat. “They asked for a quote, and he gave them one.”

It’s not a quote, really, but more of a declarative statement, accompanied with a picture of them with their arms around one another. Her face is buried in the front of his jersey, hidden except for the edges of her smile and he has a hand tangled in her hair, his grin brilliant under the sunlight.

_ Blake (pictured left), goalkeeper, Griffin, striker.  _ She reads, smoothing out the creases of the paper carefully.  _ Co-captains of the Arkers. _

“You guys look good together.” Octavia cuts in, snapping her out of her reverie. “Should we get this one framed?”

She turns to stare, the world tilting disorientingly on its axis, casting her adrift. Inhaling sharply, she digs her feet into the ground, steadying herself. “We-- Bellamy and I-- no, we’re not together. We’re not even dating.”

It’s Octavia’s turn to stare now, brow arched. “That’s not what I meant. It was more along the lines of how you  _ both _ look great in the photo.” There’s a pointed, awkward beat before she adds, “no other implication whatsoever.”

“Oh.” She says dumbly, her cheeks fucking  _ flaming.  _ Ignoring Raven’s curious stare, she clears her throat, dropping the paper back onto the desk. “Yeah. We should definitely think about framing this one.”

“The group photo, right?” Monty asks, a tad too innocently.

Scowling, she crosses her arms over her chest, forcing a tone of  _ absolute nonchalance.  _ “What else could I be talking about?”

+

It seems counterintuitive at this point to deny that she has the tiniest,  _ smallest  _ of crushes on Bellamy Blake. 

He had always been attractive to her- in a infuriating, terrible way that made her want to push him into things and make out with him- but he had reached a whole new level of distraction lately, with his constant state of shirtlessness and his stupid,  _ stupid  _ smile. She almost tripped over herself just yesterday when he had upended his bottle of water over his head, made worse by how he had the  _ nerve  _ to come find her after- glistening with water and sweat, mind you- just to ask if she was up for a driving lesson.

Honestly, Clarke would have been able to deal with it a lot better if her feelings were motivated by lust and lust alone, but she knew better than that. It was the way he always seemed to know, intuitively, when she needed someone. It was his unwavering loyalty, his devotion to the people who loved. His selflessness, the incredible capacity he had to care for people.

It was like this: her head was a constant, never-ending war zone, and while he could never calm the storm that raged within her (that fell on her, and her alone), he was the anchor that kept her adrift, a force of nature himself. He was reassurance, a moment of quiet, a warm squeeze of her palm when she faltered;  _ you don’t have to do this alone. _

So, was she certain about how she felt about him? Absolutely. Did she know what to do about it? Well, that was a definite no. (She never had to deal with any of  _ this  _ in all her years of teenage infatuations and doomed romances. They had always approached her first, and Clarke just always sort of went with it.)

Resisting the urge to sulk, she drops into the empty seat next to Miller, poking him in the ribs.

“Tell me your secrets.” She demands, kicking at his ankle.

He sighs, but turns to look at her anyway, his hand still resting against Bryan’s knee. “What now?”

“How did  _ this, _ ” she makes an exaggerated, twirling motion between the two of them, “happen? I mean, no offence, Miller. But you’re generally inept at feelings. So I was just wondering.”

That gets a snort out of Bryan. “She has you there.”

“You’re supposed to be on my side.” He grumbles, though there’s no heat behind his words. “God, Clarke. I don’t know. I just asked him out and he said yes.”

“Helpful.” She deadpans, slumping back against her chair.

He grins at her, reaches over to cuff at the back of Bryan’s neck affectionately. “Glad I could be of service.”

+

Their match against Floukru is a tough one, but they manage to scrape by with the skin of their teeth when Jasper manages to evade their goalkeeper long enough to score a single goal, effectively putting them in the running for the top three. 

So,  _ naturally,  _ it calls for their usual pizza-and-booze celebration in the boys locker room.

“I’m thinking we should branch out,” Harper muses, handing her a cold beer. “Do you think anyone would go for sushi around here?”

“Sure,” she chirps, grabbing the last of the paper plates. “If you give them a really good incentive, that is.”

She brightens at that, “hey, maybe I could work something out with Bellamy.”

Clarke’s pretty sure that the odds of Bellamy willingly consuming raw fish are slim, but now that she’s brought it up, well. “Speaking of, have you seen him?”

Harper shrugs, “went out back to brood, I think. It was a close call today.”

“Of course,” she mutters, setting her beer down on one of the benches. “That idiot. I’ll be right back.”

It’s a feat having to make her way out when the room is filled with tipsy, gravitationally challenged people but she finds a way somehow, narrowly avoiding Octavia’s wildly gesticulating limbs before emerging outside, cringing at the oppressive layer of heat that settles immediately over her skin.

He’s tapping away at his phone when she spots him, a unopened bottle of beer wedged between his feet.

“Not in the mood to celebrate?” She calls out, laughing when his head jerks up, his expression morphing to one of sheepishness once he realises who it is.

“Didn’t I throw up on your shoes the last time I celebrated?” He points out, wry, tugging on her sleeve gently before she relents, plopping down next to him. “Also, you never did get back to me on what to do about them.”

Feigning a scowl, she crosses her arms over her chest. “They weren’t exactly salvageable.”

Bellamy shoots her a distinctively mournful look, “I  _ am  _ sorry.”

“It’s fine.” She waves him off, resisting the urge to brush aside the thatch of curls hanging in his eyes. “How are you holding up?”

He grimaces, shoving his phone into the pocket of his hoodie. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad we won. But you know what this means, right?”

“Uh.” It’s a little hard to concentrate when she’s hyper aware of how  _ close  _ they are right now, the warmth of his bare arm radiating against hers, how she could make out the sharp, clean scent of his shampoo. “Not really, actually.” 

His smile is forced, tight at the corners. “The grounders are bound to make it to the top three, too.”

It’s definitely _ not _ something she had considered before (well, looking at the state of the team a few months back) but she’s almost surprised by how little it bothers her. It feels inevitable, really, but knowing that she’d be facing them with her family by her side, with  _ Bellamy,  _ makes her feel strangely at ease.

“Are you worried that I’m going to go easy on them?” She prods, frowning at him.

He does look genuinely alarmed at that, but not, she suspects, from actually believing her earlier statement. “Jesus, Clarke. No.  _ No.  _ I just-- would you be okay seeing them again? Facing them down and everything?”

“Yes.” Clarke goes, meeting his gaze steadily. “With you guys? Definitely.”

The pause that stretches on between them seems loaded, somehow, the look in his eyes inscrutable. It makes her want to do something stupid to break it, like draw his face in her hands, or press her lips against the tick in his jaw, and--

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Bellamy says, quiet. Then, a little more strongly, “the grounders are idiots anyway.”

She leans forward despite herself, pulse screaming in her ears at the movement. “To be fair, they’re brilliant strategists despite their shitty personalities.”

“No.” He snorts, decisive. “They’re idiots, Clarke.”

“I think,” she declares, squinting at him suspiciously. “You might be a  _ tad  _ biased, Bellamy Blake.”

“I have a very compelling case.” He counters, nudging the abandoned bottle of beer aside with his foot. “They were stupid enough to lose you, for one.”

Her mouth goes dry at that, and it takes everything in her power to stay where she is, to keep herself from reaching out and fucking  _ kissing  _ him already. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He echoes, grinning over at her, earnest and sweet and a little shy, too. “You’re a fucking badass, okay? And smart, and--”

“Bellamy,” she interrupts, because her hands are  _ shaking  _ and this just might be the craziest, most foolhardy thing she has ever done, “I’m-- I really want to kiss you right now.”

His eyes go wide, squeaking out a barely comprehensible  _ what  _ that she would have laughed at, if anything about this situation was comical at all. She pulls closer instead, keeping her movements deliberately slow, resting a palm against his face. 

He stays where he is, inhaling sharply when their foreheads bump, lips grazing. The anticipation thrums like electricity under her skin, sparking whenever they touch, and when he finally, finally closes the distance between them, she thinks she might implode.

The kiss is soft, slow, like coming home after years of being cast adrift. She sinks into it, instinctive, fingers working her way to his shoulders and holding him close. It tastes like familiarity, like relief.  _ Oh, there you are,  _ she thinks, breathless and dizzy and god, ecstatic,  _ I would have known you even in the dark. _

Clarke pulls away, breathing hard, fingers tangled in his hair. “Holy shit.”

That gets a laugh out of him, his thumb stroking across her cheekbone. “My sentiments exactly.” Then, lowly, “I’ve wanted to do that for awhile now.”

Arching a brow at him, she presses a quick, chaste kiss against his lips. “So why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t think,” he gives a rueful shake of his head, hands sliding down to her neck and stroking at the skin there, absentminded. “I didn’t think you’d ever feel the same way about me, okay?”

“Yeah.” She says, dropping her head against his shoulder, smiling into his skin. “I didn’t think you would, either.”

He laughs, sliding his hands down to her hips, like he’s not sure how to stop touching her. “So what now?”

“We’ll figure it out.” She tells him, reaching up to kiss him once more.

+

Clarke shows up at his door that very night, mostly because it’s  _ stupid  _ to dance around each other when they’re both more than aware of their feelings for one another.

“Hi,” she starts off, trying not to stare at the sweatpants riding low on his hips, the glasses perched haphazardly against the bridge of his nose. “Busy?”

Bellamy definitely catches her checking him out, if his wide smile is any indication _.  _ “I don’t know. What do you have in mind?”

“How do you feel about cuddling?”

“Oh, terrible.” He says gravely, catching her by her waist and pulling her close. “Being pressed up against someone I really like? Sounds dreadful.”

“Gross.” Clarke agrees, solemn, going up on her tiptoes to plant a smacking kiss against his lips. It drops off into a shriek when he hauls her up and off her feet, half-carrying her into his room. 

“I’m going to be really mad if you drop me,” she tells him, breathless and in between kisses.

He grunts in response, adjusting his grip on her thighs. “I’m not  _ going  _ to.”

“That’s what people say right before they drop someone.” She mutters, bouncing against his bed slightly as he sets her down. His sheets are still warm when she wraps herself in them, grinning, dissolving into a laugh when he falls atop her, pressing her back down against the mattress before nuzzling at her chest.

“Planning on making a home down there?” She asks, amused.

He smirks at that, pitching forward on his elbows to bite at her shoulder. “Hard not to. They’re kind of great, really.”

“I’m not even surprised.” She snorts, dancing her fingers down his spine, suppressing a shiver when he laves at the bite with his tongue. “Hey, cut that out for a second. I need to ask you something.”

Lifting his head, he rests his chin against her clavicle. “About?”

It seemed easy, at first, when she made the decision to come over here and talk to him about it, mature, even,  _ but _ . The words dry up in her throat at his expectant face, the curious tilt of his chin. Swallowing, she delves her fingers into his hair instead, toying with the curls at the nape of his neck.

Sensing her hesitation, he squeezes at her hip, reassuring.

She takes a deep breath, feels her shoulder jerk upwards in a helpless sort of shrug. “We-- we’re dating, right? Tell me this is not a one-time, impulsive, never-going-to-happen-again sort of thing.”

The corners of his mouth tick up at her statement, his hands gentle as he reaches up to cup her face. “The chances of this being a one-time thing is highly unlikely, Clarke. Not with the way I feel about you.” Then, a little shyly, “I want to be with you. If you’d have me, that is.”

Biting back a smile, she leans over to peck a kiss against his eyelids, the tip of his nose. “I’ll always want you, Bell.”

“Figured it’d be nice to have the reassurance.” He says dryly, shifting forward so she could lay her head against his chest instead, loop an arm around his shoulders. His shirt feels soft against her cheek as she sinks into his warmth, getting comfortable.

Bellamy cards his fingers through her hair then, soft, detangling the knots and sweeping them away from her face, motions soothing against her scalp. Smiling into his neck, she bumps at his ankle playfully, dislodging the few books he’d abandoned at the foot of the bed. “What were you reading?” 

“Greek myths.” He says, retrieving them, planting a quick kiss on her forehead. “Why?”

“You could read to me.” She says, sleepy from the dual sensation of his fingers working through her hair, his warm breath fanning against her temple.

His chuckle is amused, rumbles throughout his frame. “I didn’t peg you as someone who would like these sort of stories.”

Clarke closes her eyes, breathing him in. “Anything sounds good when you’re the one saying it.”

“Oh wow, that was smooth.”

She hums, patting at his chest. “I’d like it even more if you did it with your shirt off, probably.”

“I knew you were only in this because of my body.” He laughs before obliging anyway, as she pushes closer, ready to listen.

+

Not all that much changes despite the fact that they’re together. 

They still argue, of course- over game plays and strategies and their opinions on everything else (see: the great marvel v.s D.C debate, all that discourse on what constitutes a great grilled cheese) but it’s almost  _ fun,  _ at times, especially after she discovers how much Bellamy likes making it up to her after. It gives a whole new meaning to the disagreements they have while on the court because she spends half the time thinking about how they could have sex in the locker room when they’re done which is pretty detrimental when she’s trying to prove a certain point here, but, well.

And there’s the dates, too, though Clarke’s not sure if they’re even considered dates at this point. She’s always known dating to be awkward in several aspects- whether it was the forced formality of it all or the constant need to impress- but it’s different with Bellamy,  _ easy  _ in a way that she appreciates, whether it was just getting takeout together or keeping each other company while they worked on their own stuff.

It’s comfortable in a way that she never got to be with anyone else, and she  _ loves  _ it.

They’ve decided to keep the relationship quiet until after the championship game (through an unspoken, but  _ definitely  _ mutual agreement), but it’s difficult to keep it under wraps these days with all this tension in the air, being one match away from (possibly) going up against the grounders. (Bellamy is particularly stressed about this, but no one’s really surprised by that.)

Which brings them here; with both of them making out furiously by the back of the bleachers, clothes askew and hair damp from their post-practice showers.

She bats his hands away when he reaches for the hem of her shirt. “I’m not getting grass burn from this.”

“Fine,” he grumbles, muffling his disapproval against her shoulder before sliding his hands under her shirt instead. “This okay?”

Humming her approval, she hooks her leg over his hip, bites at his bottom lip meanly when he surges up to kiss her again. “You have the worst possible timing when it comes to loaning out your truck, you know that?”

“I’m aware,” he says pointedly, wedging his knee between her thighs and making her moan with it. “Technically, we could be doing this in the comfort of  _ my  _ bedroom, if someone hadn’t ambushed me on the way there.”

“Takes too long,” she huffs, the words dying in her throat when he flits his fingers along the waistband of her jeans, caressing at the exposed skin. “Jesus, Bell. Stop fucking teasing already.”

“Impatient.” He chides, squeezing at her breast before finally dipping his hand lower, working at the button--

Then a prim, distinctly  _ obvious  _ cough rings through the clearing and Bellamy stiffens above her, eyes wide and cheeks flushed as she scrambles out from beneath him as quickly as she can, tugging at her sweatshirt as she goes.

Monty clears his throat, keys swaying from his outstretched finger. “I was heading back to drop these off, and, uh.” There’s a small smile working its way from the corners of his mouth, a barely contained one; and Clarke scowls, giving the meanest glare she can muster,  _ dares  _ him to make that innuendo. “I thought I heard you guys, so I came out back to investigate, and, well. Here you are!”

“We weren’t that loud.” Bellamy mutters, raking his fingers through his hair.

“Sure you weren’t.” Monty replies, straight-faced.

“Yeah, we’re not doing this right now.” She interjects, crossing her arms over her chest. “Are you going to start telling everyone what you saw?”

He blinks, confusion clear on his face. “Is it supposed to be a secret or something?”

She directs her gaze over to Bellamy. “Well, not technically, no. We were keeping it quiet so as not to detract from practicing for the championships.”

Monty arches a brow at her, “because everyone on the team has attention spans of five year olds and can’t concentrate on two things at a time?”

“No!” She goes, indignant. (The effect of it is somewhat lost at Bellamy’s flat  _ yes,  _ but she’s hoping Monty didn’t hear it.)

“Oh come on,” he pleads. “This will actually be  _ great  _ for team morale.”

That gets a snort out of Bellamy, at least. “What, me and Clarke getting together?”

“You have no idea.” He declares feverently, rocking on the balls of his feet. “Okay, how about this- maybe just Jasper?”

He glances over at her, shrugs. She does too.

“Do what you want with it.” She says, swiping the keys from him.

(It doesn’t even take an  _ hour  _ for the news to spread through the entire team, eliciting a wide array of responses from hysteria (Jasper) to mild amusement (Miller). Clarke can’t say that she’s surprised in the least.)

+

The irony lies in that it all boils down to a penalty shot; that it all boils down to _Bellamy_ to take them to the championship game up against the grounders. 

(Well, it’s not really ironic, really. More like fitting. Not that she’s going to tell him any of that.)

“Hey,” she breathes, grasping at the front of his shirt when he tries to pass, holding him in place. “You got this, okay? Stay calm.”

He nods, abrupt, looking vaguely green in the face. “Right.”

“I mean it,” she insists, pulling him closer, wincing a little when she bumps up against the hard exterior of his helmet. “You’re going to save this shot, and in a week’s time, we’ll be going up against the grounders and we’re  _ winning _ .”

He gives a short, tense laugh. “That’s the dream.”

“That’s what’s happening.” She goes, working to keep her voice steady. “Hey. I need you to look at me, okay?”

His gloves are rough against her cheek when reaches over to cradle her face, and she can make out the faint tremors in his hands even through the thick fabric, “I am.”

“Good,” she exhales, squeezing at his shoulder, tells him, “I believe in you, okay? I have more faith in you than I have in anyone else.”

And before she can talk herself out of it; she unbuckles the latch of his helmet, pulling it just high enough so she could press a quick, chaste kiss against his lips. He presses back, hard and desperate, pulling her closer even after the rest begins to cheer at an embarrassingly loud volume.

He’s grinning when she finally breaks the kiss, his teeth blindingly white as she slides his helmet back on, laughing. “Now get out there and kill it, okay?”

“You got it.” He says lowly, giving her a mock salute before jogging back out onto the court.

It’s, possibly, the longest three minutes of her life, watching the opposing team line up their shot, Bellamy’s knuckles going white as he clutches at his racquet. Then, in the span of a drawn breath, it’s over and all she can see amidst all the confetti and shouting is the scoreboard,  _ Arkers- 2, Trikru- 1 _ .

Everything dissolves into chaos within seconds; Jasper’s triumphant shout of  _ we’re going to the finals, baby! _ ringing in her ears, Raven slinging an arm over her neck haphazardly and nearly choking her- and she can’t stop smiling through it all, cheeks aching from the strain because  _ yes _ , yes they are.

+

She crawls into his lap the night before the big game, reaching up to smooth out the crease between his brows, curling up onto his lap. 

Bellamy twines their fingers together, ducks down to press an absent kiss to her hair. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m alright, mostly.” She mumbles, feeling the anxiety weighing at her chest ease slightly at his fingers sliding up and down her spine, soothing. “I mean, I’m a little antsy but that’s pretty normal, considering the circumstances.”

“Yeah.” He agrees, quiet, setting his book aside. “Anything I can do?”

She shakes her head, nuzzles closer. “Just needed you to hold me.” Clarke mumbles, her voice muffled in the fabric of his shirt.

He hums in response, thumb rubbing soothing circles along her back. “You know, there used to be this little thing that I would do, back when Octavia used to be stressed out or anxious about something.”

“Ice cream,” she says automatically, tilting her face up to look at him. “No,” she corrects herself at the bemused arch of his brow, “uh, butterflies? Video games? What kind of kid was she?”

That gets a snort out of him. “Bratty,” he goes, fond, before barreling on. “But that’s not the point.” 

“I’m actually curious as to what the point is now,” she mutters dryly, yelping when she feels him pinch at her side lightly.

“I’m telling a  _ story _ ,” he says primly, jostling her. “Don’t interrupt.”

She shoots him a mock glare, dropping her head back against his chest. “Fine.”

Bellamy clears his throat, continues. “So Octavia used to be in the drama club, okay? But uh, she would always get really anxious the night before her performances.”

“Okay,” she says, biting back a snicker. “So, performance anxiety, basically.”

He groans, tweaks at her nose when she tries to squirm away. “I’m here trying to tell you a  _ heartwarming  _ story about my sister, and here you are--”

“Fine, fine!” Clarke goes, throwing her hands up in surrender. “I’ll be good, I promise. Go on.”

She could feel him smiling against her hair. “So basically, Octavia could never go to sleep, and she would spend  _ hours  _ just bugging me about what-ifs. It drove me crazy.”

His hands are at her shoulders now, working out the tension and knots, and she takes a deep breath, leaning closer. “What did you do, then?”

“We played this game.” He says, soft. “I would talk her through this entire, hypothetical day, go through the possibilities together, and she would feel better after.”

Straightening, she peers up at him. “Wait, so you think that would make me feel better?”

He shrugs, fingers drumming against her neck. “What’s the harm?”

“I don’t know,” she mumbles, pushing her face into the crook of his shoulder. “Uh, I wouldn’t know how to start us off, for one.”

“It’s easy.” He says, confident, twisting his neck at an awkward angle so he can brush a kiss over her mouth. “Okay, I’ll start. Five minutes before the game, and we’re all gathered in the locker room.”

She closes her eyes when she feels him start on her head, massaging at her scalp just the way she likes it. “You’ll probably be pacing. That’s what you always do before a big game. Raven always thinks you’re going to wear a hole right through the floor.”

“Of course that’s what she thinks.” He mutters darkly, shifting slightly in his seat. “Miller would be listening to his iPod, ignoring everyone.”

“And Jasper would be going around  _ annoying _ everyone,” she mumbles, feeling drowsier by the second, with his hands in her hair and his breath warm against her face. “Monty will intervene after about, five minutes?” 

His chest shakes at that, a small, soft laugh. “Two, probably. And Harper will back him up.”

“Murphy’s probably just smirking at everyone.”

“Dick,” he says, but it’s impossible to miss the note of fondness in his voice. “You would probably be going through all the plays still, reading through your notes. Trying to get me to change one or two at the last minute.”

“Only when I think it’s crap.” She grumbles, blindly fumbling for his hand until he takes it, squeezing. “Nah. I’ll be with you, holding your hand. Calming you down.”

His breath hitches at that, his fingers tightening around hers imperceptibly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She says, soft. The anxiety and unease from before feels far away now, sequestered to some place she can’t reach; not when she’s in his arms, at least. “Because that’s who we are for each other.”

He goes quiet for a while, long enough for her to wonder if he’s fallen asleep. Then, she feels the brief scratch of his stubble as he presses a kiss to her temple, lingering. “The game’s starting now. I can hear the crowd.”

“The grounders have terrible cheerleaders.” She murmurs, swaying in his grip.

“They do.” He rasps, his voice thick with some emotion that she can’t seem to identify right now. “You ready, Clarke?”

And she can see it clearly now- the orange and gold banners, the shriek of the buzzer, sunlight glinting off the blue and green uniforms of the grounders. Bellamy’s hand in hers, safe and warm, her racquet in the other.

“I am when I’m with you.” She tells him, as they step out into the open together, to the cheers of the crowd.

**Author's Note:**

> The bellarke fanfiction awards is upon us (this sounds very oddly formal but w/e) so [vote](http://bellarkefanfictionawards.tumblr.com/) and show your appreciation for your fave authors, you guys!


End file.
